All Hearts Are Broken
by jojospn
Summary: Post series 4 AU. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. Sherlock Holmes dies on a cold, October night. This is the story of those left behind, and their grief.


**A/N: This is a new format for me for this fandom, but something which familiar readers of mine from other fandoms will no doubt recognize. Set after series four, so any events leading up to this will be canon compliant, but obviously the main plot is the product of my over active imagination. As always, all rights go to ACC and Moffat/Gatiss. This fic contains a major character death, fair warning.**

 **All Hearts are Broken**

 **John**

John had always loved the smell of rain. As a child, some of his fondest memories involved running barefoot in the grass during a summer shower, the air fresh and clean. As cliched as it sounded, he always felt that summer storms were almost like a rebirth, cleansing the negativity of his unhappy childhood and bringing with it a sense of peace. Not surprisingly, with the coming of adolesence came the cynisism and moodiness, but even as a teenager, he would sometimes go out for a walk in the rain to help clear his head.

Never again would John Watson seek comfort in the rain. As the cool October shower poures down, the doctor kneels beside his best friend, somehow steady hands applying pressure to the wound in his friend's chest. Sherlock lay on the cobblestones, eyes glassy, clutching John's hand like a life line. "Hang on, Sherlock," John hears himself repeating, "it's going to be fine. _You're_ going to be fine." But it _isn't._ Years of medical training, months of watching comrades die before his very eyes, remindes

John Watson that everything most definitely is far from _fine._ Hell, Sherlock would have rolled his eyes and told him to stop being an idiot if he could right now... John shudders, tries to force thoughts of his friend dying out of his head. Focus. Keep Sherlock alive.

They'd lost him twice on the way to hospital. John sits in the ambulance, tight lipped and pale, as the paramedics work to bring his best friend back. _Not good. The survival rate following_ one _cardiac arrest, let alone two, are slim._ No. Focus. John closes his eyes, willing himself to calm down, to breathe. Sherlock had somehow pulled through the last time he'd been shot. Had been clinically dead for six minutes before coming back. The man had pulled god knows how many miracles in the seven years he'd known him.

There would be no miracle this time. Sitting in an uncomfortable waiting room chair, head buried in his hands, John is startled by the sound of the door opening. He rises from the chair, unsteady, staring at the surgeon before him, eyes sympathetic. Before he can speak, John knows. He can feel his knees buckle beneath him, and he grips at the hard plastic of the chair to steady himself. "Doctor Watson." the surgeon begins, but John barely registers what the doctor is saying. Later, he would only remember snippets of conversation: _we did the best we could, the damage was too extensive, I'm so sorry._ The surgeon reaches to place a reassuring hand on John's shoulder, but he pulls away agressively. He doesn't want a stranger's cold comfort; he wants _Sherlock._ The man who had given him back his sense of adventure, had not only cured his psychosomatic limp but gave him a reason to get up in the morning. His best friend. Sherlock Holmes had saved his life, in more ways than one. And now he is gone, life snuffed out in mere minutes. No amount of sympathy, kind touches, would bring him back. Without another word, John turns on his heel and marches out of the waiting room, past the array of medical staff and visitors, and through the sliding doors of the A&E. He feels numb as he walks through the car park, along the busy London thoroughfares, ignoring the pedestrians on their commute. How perfectly mundane it all seems, men and women all minding their own business, oblivious to the fact that right behind him, his best friend is lyng cold on a slab.

 _Stop it. Just stop this._

Words he had uttered all those years ago at Sherlock's grave. He had begged his friend to end the charade, to just come back to him. And he had. Of course, it had taken the git two years, but he had come back to him. As promised. But this time, there would be no coming back. John quickens his pace, as if he could outrun the poisnous thoughts in his mind, but the physical activity does nothing to ease the ache in his chest. Eventually, he finds himself in Regent Park, sitting on an empty bench. _Their_ bench, the one he and Sherlock had tended to favour when on one of their rare strolls through the park. Gently, John brushes his fingers against the rough wood, and he feels the sting of tears in his eyes, threatening to spill. For a moment, he just sits there, stoic, staring ahead at the scene before him: a young mother dressed in yoga pants and a White Stripes t-shirt, pushing a pram; a middle aged man in a track suit, struggling to keep the pace as he jogged past.

 _New jogger. Doctor told him he needs to get in shape. Judging by the state of the track suit, there's no room in the budget for a gym membership. A public park is an economical way to achieve physical fitness._

John can clearly hear Sherlock's voice in his head, calculating his deductions without so much as batting an eyelash. "Shut up," he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut in an effort to block the image. When, after a few moments, he still hears his flatmate's voice, John lets out a broken sob, burrying his face in his hands. For several minutes he sits there, breathing deeply, trying to steady his nerves. He wants to burst into tears but finds he can't. A grim repeat of the last time he had lost his friend. After several minutes, a buzz from his mobile reminds thim that he is more than likely the only one aware of Sherlock's death. The daunting task of informing his friends looms before him. Drawing another deep breath, John Watson picks up the mobile and calls Lestrade's number.

 **Lestrade**

When Greg Lestrade's mobile rings, he knows that the news isn't good.

If Sherlock were ok, the resposnse would have been via an answering text. _Still in surgery,_ or _not out of the woods yet but doc hopeful,_ or better yet, _he's going to make it._ But a phone call, that is, as John would have put it, _a bit not good._ Anxiously, he answers, covering one ear to muffle the noise of the crime scene. _Sherlock's..._ No. Greg quickly turns his back to the scene, massaging his temple in hopes of alleviating the pressure of his massive stress headache.

"John, is he alright?"

Silence. And then...

" _No, Greg. He isn't alright."_

"Jesus, John, please don't be sayin' what I think you're going to..."

" _He's...Sh-Sher..."_

Greg can feel the tightness in his chest, overwhelming him, and he finds himself leaning against a brick wall for support. Before he even realizes, a few stray tears leak from his eyes, but Lestrade quickly brushes them away. He needs to be professional. Can't break down in front of his team. He draws a shaky breath, and continues. "Where are you? I can be there in a few."

There is a pause on the other end of the line as John obviously struggles to compose himself. _"Yeah, thanks Greg, but I need to be alone right now, if that's ok."_

"Of course. I'm here if you need me, John, right? You don't have to go through this alone." Greg pauses as John responds with a half hearted affirmitive. After a few moments of silence, he clears his throat. "Does Mrs. Hudson know?" The continued silence answers the DI's question. "Don't worry about it. I can take care of it, alright mate?" He can hear John mumble some sort of reply in what Greg assumes is an affirmitive, and after a moment disconnects the call. For a minute, he stands there, the device still grasped in his hand. It's trembling, the detective inspector notices, and he realizes that his hand is shaking almost uncontrollably. He's going to have to tell the team, inform them that their crime scene is now offically that for a homicide. Anderson and Donovan may take the news with difficulty, but somehow Greg has a feeling that the death of Sherlock Holmes will not cause too much grief among his colleagues.

"Oh, shit," he mumbles, and fumbles for a cigarette. "Jesus fuck..." With trembling hands he makes several attempts to flick his lighter, until eventually it catches. He draws a long drag, the nicotine doing little to calm him. He stands there, smoking and staring blankly ahead, and seeing nothing. He's gone. Just like that, his life snatched away by a mugger's bullet. Greg had never had any children with his ex wife, had never really thought that he'd wanted any. And then Sherlock bloody Holmes just had to waltz into his life, the son he had never realized he had wanted, or needed. A pain in the arse, arrogant sonofabitch, but a son nontheless. Greg clearly remembers the day he first met him, high off his mind, demanding access to his crime scene as if he owned the place. His brother had warned him of his younger sibling's arrival, and had seemed nonplussed at Greg's initial refusal to allow Sherlock access. He'd finally relented after Mycroft had assured the DI his position at the Yard would be maintained, and that the work would actually help keep his brother's embarrassing little drug habit at bay. "Sherlock will prove to be useful, I assure you," the British Government had insisted. And damn, Mycroft had been right. Even strung out on god knows what chemicals, Sherlock Holmes had proven to be bloody _brilliant._ Cases that had been sitting on the shelf, cold for years, had been solved in less than fourty-eight hours; other simpler ones in barely a day. The arrogant kid became a staple at NSY, even if his colleagues (namely Anderson and Donovan) were unamused. _Freak,_ Donovan had called Sherlock, unjustly, and while Greg would admit that his new consulting detective was more than a little unorthodox, and _definitely_ unnerving, the detective had always had a soft spot for the man from the beginning, despite Sherlocks' infuriating insistance of referring to him as Graham.

" _Sherlock Holmes is a great man,"_ he had told John when the doctor had asked why he put up with him, what seems like a lifetime ago, _"And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."_

Greg finishes his drag, crushing the butt with the heel of his shoe. Sherlock had definitely proved himself to be a good man in the years since his meeting John Watson. The seemingly mild mannered doctor had somehow brought out the best in him, a selflessness and almost kindness. He'd witnessed the way his friend would care for John's infant daughter, with no uncertain amount of awkardness, but with a gentle kindness and love he had never bestowed upon _anyone_ , not even his immediate family. His best man's speech at John and Mary's wedding had moved practically everyone to tears, including Lestrade himself.

Greg sighs, quickly regaining his composure before turning to rejoin the group. He still has a job to do, one that has just become even more than a priority than it had been minutes earlier. Bracing himself, the DI slowly makes his way back to the crime scene, willing himself not to be sick in front of his team. Slowly, he lifts the police tape and makes his way over to where Anderson is snapping crime scene photos. "Phil, looks like this just became a homicide."

 **Mrs. Hudson**

When Sherlock Holmes had helped ensure the execution of her husband, Martha Hudson had been grateful. She had shed no tears at Frank's sentencing, and on the day of his death, she had invited the young detective to her flat for tea and biscuits (the former which he had enjoyed thoroughly, and the latter which he had properly ignored; one couldn't waste time on something as trivial as eating when on a case, after all). The day had been a happy one, Mrs. Hudson beaming and gushing about how wonderful the consulting detective was to settle everything so nicely. Sherlock had been oblivious to the attention, initially sipping on his tea and rambling on about the mechanics of the case, as the elderly lady listened eagerly. Later, his second mug sitting untouched beside him, the detective had settled down on her couch, fingers steepled, eyes closed. Though she was unaware at the time, the strange man who had saved her from her abusive husband was deep within what she would later learn was his Mind Palace. Eventually Sherlock had risen from his spot, announced that he was busy, and had stormed out of the flat without so much as a thank you.

Despite the seemingly rude behaviour, Sherlock Holmes continued to visit 221A Baker Street to visit Mrs. Hudson. The landlady was secretly pleased, and before long a mutual fondness and respect formed between the duo. Though the detective's appearances were few and far between, the kindly woman doted on him as if he were her own flesh and blood. Baked goods, sandwiches, and other small bites to eat were made for him, even though the majority of the offerings would remain untouched with a cold comment of "eating? Boring."Countless pots of tea, black with two sugars, were also provided, with greater success. The duo had settled into a comfortable routine; and if Sherlock had objected to her motherly behaviour, he said nothing to discourage her. When Sherlock and his new mate, Dr. John Watson, had moved into 221B, Mrs. Hudson had been more than thrilled. Though constantly reminding them that she was their landlady and _not_ their housekeeper, the kindly woman continued to dote on not only Sherlock, but the good doctor as well: her Baker Street Boys.

When Mrs. Hudson opens the door to her flat that cold, October morning, she is surprised to see Detective Inspector Lestrade standing there, looking exhausted. Though she does not have her tenant's uncanny talent in deduction, the landlady can immediately sense that something is terribly wrong. Despite her misgivings, ushers the DI in, offering a cuppa and some of her famous homemade cranberry orange scones. The anxiety intensifies when Lestrade declines. Something is very wrong. But instead of acknowledging the fear building in the pit of her stomach, she puts on a brave face. "What did those boys do this time?" she tuts as she closes the door behind her visitor. "All that carrying on in the middle of the night. Bless them, I know it does Sherlock good having John around, but it wouldn't kill the man if he took one moment to have a solid eight hours and a proper meal." Mrs. Hudson knows she is rambling, but she can't stop herself, terrified to learn the truth behind the detective's visit. So caught up in her distractions, the landlady doesn't notice how Lestrade briefly pales before composing himself and gently squeezing the elderly woman's shoulder. "Mrs. Hudson, I'm afraid I have some bad news."

When Lestrade finally tells Mrs. Hudson that her boy is dead, the elderly woman lets out a little gasp, covering her mouth to stifle her sobs. After a moment, she suddenly remembers John, and quickly composes herself. She's already lost Sherlock; the thought of losing _both_ of her boys is unthinkable. "What about John?" she finally asks softly. "Is he...?"

"John's safe, Mrs. Hudson. In shock, but he wasn't hurt." Mrs. Hudson releases the breath she hadn't realized she had been holding and gives a small nod of relief, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. "Thank God," she murmurs, before pulling the DI in for a hug. "The offer for tea still stands, dear. Lord knows you could use a cuppa." Lestrade mutely nods, and he follows Mrs. Hudson to 221A, where she mechanically puts the kettle on. She maintains her composure as the two sit in silence, their drinks untouched, until at last the DI excuses himself and leaves. It isn't until she is certain that she is alone that Martha Hudson at last breaks down. Her boy, the one she had loved like a son, is gone. "Oh, Sherlock," she moans, shoulders shaking in grief. And then suddenly she remembers John, of how lost, how _empty,_ the doctor must be feeling now. He had barely survived when Sherlock had faked his suicide years earlier. This time, his flatmate wasn't coming back. Her heart aches for him. To lose someone you loved _twice_ is more than anyone could an unsteady sigh, she rises and slowly

makes her way upstairs to 221B. There isn't much Mrs. Hudson can do but she _can_ make a warm fire and prepare a hot meal for her tenant, even if it is more than likely to be left uneaten. Bracing herself, she pulls the key to the flat from the pocket of her dress and pushes the door open. Immediately she is overwhelmed by Sherlock's presence: the unfinished experiment on the kitchen table, the barely touched mug of tea on the end table, the photos and maps taped to the wall, red permanant marker making the connections between potential suspects of his latest case. The one which had resulted in his death. Shuddering, Mrs. Hudson blocks out the images and quickly sets to work setting the fire and cleaning out the kitchen, careful to keep as much of it untouched as possible. A horrible sense of deja-vouz overwhelms her, but she manages to push it back until at last the task is finished and the footsteps of an obviously weary and grief stricken John slowly make their way up the familiar seventeen steps to the flat. Closing her eyes, she braces herself. It's time to be the strong one.

Slowly the door opens and John Watson drags himself in.

"Oh, John, dear..."

 **Molly**

She almost can't do it.

Well over an hour had passed since Sherlock's body had been wheeled into her morgue, while Molly Hooper stands frozen before it. Several times she had grasped her scalpel, ready to make her Y incision, only to find the instrument shaking in her grasp. This time she nearly pierces flesh; the scalpel becomes abnormally blurry, and Molly realizes that she is crying. Again she draws back her hand, trying in vain to blink back the offending tears. It isn't just a magic trick this time; everything is so horribly _real._ Immediately she covers her mouth with her free hand, the scalpel crashing to the tray beside her, as the intense nausea overcomes her. She barely makes it to the loo in time, dropping like a rag doll before the toilet as she vomits.

It takes fifteen minutes desperately grasping the porcelain of the toilet bowl before Molly finally rises unsteadily and rinses the acrid taste of bile from her mouth. She stares at the reflection in the mirror, hates what she sees. The mousy, brown locks are a tangled mess, face flushed, soft brown eyes red and puffy from tears. The woman before her is unrecognisable, a shadow of her former self. Gone is the Molly Hooper of earlier days, a little quiet and unsure of herself, but always with that little spark which made her so uniquely _Molly;_ the woman who had the strength and confidence to not only excel in her field, but to keep up with the mad consulting detective who had constantly stormed into her morgue at all hours demanding her assistance. The man she had been infatuated with from day one, who she loved with all her heart.

The man who is now lying cold on a steel slab not twenty feet away from her.

The need to feel sick begins to once more show itself, and Molly bends over, breathing deeply through the nausea. When she feels certain that she isn't about to lose what little remains in her stomach on the floor, Molly slowly rises and makes her way back to the morgue. She sees him, and once more freezes. _I can't do this. I'm sorry Sherlock._ No matter that Mycroft had requested that she perform the post mortem (a cruelty rather than a kindness, in her opinion).She'll call her boss in the morning, Let someone else cut up the man she loves... Her hands fly to her mouth, and she's afraid that she's going to vomit again, no making it to the loo this time, but somehow manages to settle her stomach.

 _Come now, Molly. I've been to you for enough cases, you've helped me fake my own suicide, surely you can perform a simple post mortem._

"Not now, Sherlock." The tears are now falling freely, but there is a faint smile gracing Molly's lips. Even in death Sherlock Holmes would be constanly on her case. The smile becomes a slight chuckle, and she finds that she is slowly making her way back to the table. She once more she stands before her tray of instruments, her eyes lingering on the offending scalpel.

 _I've always trusted you._

Words spoken what seemed to be a lifetime ago, before what John had subconsciously referred to as The Fall. "I don't count," she had told him, and yet Sherlock had insisted otherwise. He hadn't known at the time how much those words had meant to her, the woman who had always second guessed herself, had believed to be insignificant. Perhaps she did not have the love of Sherlock Holmes, but she had his respect, his admiration; and his friendship. Never had he let her down, nor she him. And there was no bloody way Molly Hooper was about to let him down now. Feeling her heart rate beginning to settle, Molly snaps on her gloves, once more grasps the scalpel. "You can do this," she whispers to the corpse lying before her, and carefully makes her incision. Many times she pauses, tells herself she can't finish. But her professionalism, and her love and admiration for the man lying before her, guide her through. When at last she's finished, Molly once more finds herself in the loo, the water in the basin turned as hot as she can stand. She scrubs her hands, trying in vain to rid herself of blood ( _Sherlock's blood, oh god_ ). The water runs pink, and then clear, and still Molly scrubs until her hands are raw. Finally, when the water begins to run cold, she turns off the tap, dries her hands. She mecahnically goes through the process of cleaning, steralizing, filling out the proper paperwork. Her hands shake as she fills out Sherlock's death certificate, scrawling her signature on the bottom. The last time she'd sign a death certificate for Sherlock Holmes, she had known that the man in question was alive and well. Had, in fact, been standing beside her, watching as she signed her name, marking his death official. "A little creepy, yeah?" she'd joked feebly, and the consutling detective had shrugged off the comment before uttering a typical Sherlockian reply.

"It's real this time," she tells the empty room. And at last, Molly Hooper's facade breaks, She drops to her knees and weeps, shaking uncotrollably as she sobs. She ignores her mobile when it rings several times in succession. No doubt Mycroft wanting to know when the post mortem on his brother would be complete. It would be like him; after all, he is a Holmes. To show any sign of sentiment would be blasphemous. For several minutes she indulges in her grief, before at last she regains her composure. Slowly she rises and heads to leave. As her hand reaches to turn off the light, Molly once more pauses, sighing deeply. She closes her eyes, can clearly see Sherlock standing before her, wearing that rediculous Belstaff regardless of the weather, that infuriating smirk on his face. She can almost smell the expensive cologne, hear the smoothness of his rich baritone. Quickly she kills the lights and locks the door behind her.

 **Mycroft**

 _Caring is not an advantage._

A lesson Mycroft Holmes had tried to instil upon his younger sibling even as a preschooler who still preferred to be called William over Sherlock. His brother had been not quite five years of age, and had been devestated when he had found his pet goldfish floating belly up in its bowl. Little Sherlock had gone to Mycroft in tears, cradling the dead creature between the palms of his hand, begging that it be buried rather than simply flushed down the loo. It broke the elder Holmes' heart to see his younger sibling in such a state; Sherlock had always been the more emotional of the brothers, always being burdened with, god forbid, _sentiment._ Mycroft had learned very young that it did more harm than not to become attached, only to have what you loved snatched away. His childhood friend had been killed in an automobile accident the previous year, and the eleven-year-old had grieved intensely for several months before at last coming to the conclusion that his sentiment in regards to young Andrew had been, ultimately, the root cause of Mycroft's agony. One could not grieve if there were no one to mourn in the first place. He had even detached himself from his parents and brother; he remained fond of them, of course, but buried the love for his family deep within the recesses of his mind. The risk of unimaginable grief far outweighed the lonliness of his rather miserable childhood.

Mycroft remembers the day clearly; it was early December, a light dusting of snow coating the dreary browns and greens of the English countryside a soft white. Mycroft had grasped the dead goldfish by the tail, made his way to the washroom, and coldly dropped it into the toilet. Sherlock had wailed as Mycroft had flushed the creature away, and calmly explained the dangers of attachment. Of course, little Sherlock had agreed, wiping his tears, and vowing to never again develop such relationshps. A rule his younger brother had broken when he had befriended Victor Trevor. Mycroft had warned Sherlock of the dangers of the relationship, and naturally, his stubborn brother had ignored his advice, forming a bond even stronger than Mycroft himself had felt with Andrew. And following their sister's involvement with Trevor's,.. _disappearance,_ while Mummy and Father had been floored by their son's regression and subsequent silence, Mycroft had been far from surprised.

 _Caring is not an advantage._

Words repeated following the whole incident regarding Irene Adler. Smoking outside the morgue where the Woman was supposedly lying. Sherlock had scoffed, but Mycroft had noticed the slight tremor in his brother's hand that grasped the cigarette. He had cared for her, a mutual respect and perhaps fondness the pair shared despite (or more likely, due to) the unorthodox way in which the duo had met.

 _Caring is not an advantage._

And yet, sitting before the desk in his office, Mycroft Holmes is aware that he is not heeding his own advice. He can feel his hands shaking as he draws the tumbler of brandy to his lips, spilling some of the amber liquid on the collar of his expensive coat. He doesn't care. Closing his eyes, Mycroft manages to down the remainder of his drink, setting the glass a little too roughly on the end table. His brother is dead. _Oh god, my brother is dead._ Mycroft draws a shaky breath and buries his face in his hands, the unfamiliar moisture of tears threatening to leak from his eyes. A strange lump begins to form beneath his throat, his chest tightening. Is this how it feels to grieve? The strange wetness beneath his fingers intensifies, and Mycroft finds himself shaking, silent sobs overwhelming him. For several minutes, he indulges in his agony, until at last he composes himself, wiping away the offending tears with a handkerchief. He sees the red flash on his phone indicating the several missed calls and sighs. Life continues, regardless of the death of one William Sherlock Scott Holmes. He is still needed. Once again Mycroft Holmes is the Iceman as he reaches for his pager.

"Anthea, my office please, if you would be so kind."


End file.
